


From Blood to Ashes

by werelupewoods



Category: Neopets
Genre: Battle, Death, Gen, i love making myself sad my dudes, miserable stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 13:52:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13571907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werelupewoods/pseuds/werelupewoods
Summary: "Despite the fact that the pale hunter had spent so, so long in denial, it was clear that the claws of the truth had begun to take a tight hold on him these past few weeks, or months, or perhaps even years. The rest of them, too, though they had remained foolishly silent, were all painfully aware of it as well. They just... chose to remain ignorant, it seems.Allof them.Every last oneof them. After all, of all the people in this cruel and wretched world,Shimonwould be the only one who could surelyescapethis fate, right? He’d helped so many others in the past do the same; surely he could helphimself...What a stupid, stupid thought..."[half-edited]Some Sad Stuff™ my dudes, but don't worry too much. This all takes place many, many years down the road.





	1. From Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jammy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jammy/gifts).



> //slaps the desk// WELP, I didn't think I would finish this, but here it fuckin' is.
> 
> Sorry in advance for the sadness... and the messy, mostly-unedited-ness.
> 
> But, most importantly, the characters Oliver, Nickolas, and Cathal all belong to Jammy.

Nobody knows where Nickolas is taking them, but they have faith that he knows where he’s going.

Whether Oliver, who walks directly behind Nickolas, is furious or completely manic, none of them can really tell. Or, at least, Neil and Theo can’t. Cathal and Nickolas can both almost —  _almost_ — recognise the emotions behind Oliver’s aggressive gait. It’s a mirror of Cathal’s own fury, in a way — the hunched shoulders, the narrowed eyes, the tight fists, the heavy footsteps... But something is off in the way that Oliver is breathing. It isn’t the heavy breathing of a beast in search of blood, nor is it the shallowness of an eagerness to kill. Rather, it’s trembling, and it’s shaking, and it’s causing his entire body to convulse each time he forces his lungs to accept air. It’s foreign, and it’s frightening, and the sight of it is begging Cathal to speak, but even  _he_ is afraid of what words will come out.

And so, it’s in silence that they tread.

It’s been a slow and silent walk through the cathedral’s grand halls, then through the moonlit gardens, then towards the forgotten sanctuary that sits solemnly on the edge of the cathedral's ward, but the five of them are finally steadying pace. Their destination is in sight through the willows now. The end is drawing close.

Neil’s gentle pawsteps speed up ever so slightly as he tries to pull away from Theo’s protective half-embrace — his strong arm wrapped tight around the Gnorbu’s slender waist. The grey cleric shyly turns as if to look Theo in the eyes, though he doesn’t lift his gaze from their feet as he speaks. “You should wait in the gardens,” Neil tells the slightly shorter cleric in a near-whisper, knowing full well that Theo will outright refuse the suggestion, but still feeling the need to try.

He was right in his initial assumption, though. Theo snorts dismissively and tightens his grip on the cleric’s hip. “I’m not going to leave you alone with that  _thing_ ,” he half-hisses.

“He is not a  _thing_ ,” Neil replies just as sharply, sounding equal parts offended and horrified by Theo’s words. “I am _not_ going to be alone, and he is  _not_  a  _thing_.”

Theo snorts dismissively again. “Yet.”

And Oliver immediately snaps. The Christmas Gelert, though he was trying his hardest to ignore Theo’s always-antagonistic words, spins around without any hesitation in the motion, pointing one cold finger threateningly towards the Bori’s chin. “You shut the fuck up, Theodore,” he threatens through clenched teeth. “You don’t even belong with us now in the _first_ place.”

At the sound of Oliver’s worlds, Nickolas hurriedly stops and spins around as well. “Oliver,  _stop—_ ”

But Oliver doesn’t listen — or, perhaps, doesn’t hear. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he continues to chastise the scowling Bori, taking another threatening step closer, though Theo looks completely unfazed. “You don’t know  _anything_. You have _never_ known anything.”

If it were anyone else, or under any other circumstances, Oliver’s hostile tone alone would be enough to give Theo the incentive to start a fight, but... well this is a little different. He knows that Oliver’s aggressively visceral reaction is merely the Gelert’s emotions getting the best of him, then manifesting themselves in the form of a threat. All it takes is for Theo to put himself in Oliver’s place for one split second — to imagine all of the overwhelming pain that the hunter must be going through — then he somehow, thankfully, manages to hold his tongue. He narrows his eyes, and he takes a deep breath, and he stands straight to look dismissively down at the Gelert who stands before him, but he doesn’t make a sound.

Despite Theo’s relative calm, Nickolas still grabs the younger Gelert’s shoulder and tries to spin him back around before his aggression escalates. He knows that Oliver’s temper is just as bad as Cathal’s, and that Theo’s is somehow even worse. He knows what will probably happen if he doesn’t intervene and stop Oliver from saying — or, worse, _doing_ — something he’ll regret. “ _Oliver,_ ” Nickolas scolds, his tone warm and concerned, but still stern, “you are  _not_  helping anything. You need to calm down, or you’ll just make things worse.”

At that, Nickolas lifts his eyes to meet his husband’s, as if to ask the Old Hunter for confirmation.

Cathal, though he’s (surprisingly) remained silent this entire time, gives a slow but firm nod of his head in response. He thinks he’s figured it out now. None of the others had — or, perhaps, physically _could_ — tell him why he’d been summoned when he’d first arrived at the cathedral, but now he’s pretty sure that he understands. “In the end, these sorts of things are usually triggered by emotions,” he flatly states, looking down into Oliver’s furious yellow eyes. “You really should know that by now, Oliver. I know that you’ve seen this sort of thing happen before.”

“This is different,” Oliver half-hisses, still unhesitatingly, though he doesn’t fight against Nickolas’ firm grip.

Cathal recognises the root of his son’s anger far too much to feel anything less than pure sympathy, but he still doesn’t know what to say. What would he himself want to hear if this were happening to Nickolas? Would there even be anything  _to_  say? Anything at all to calm his heart, and his boiling blood, and his rage?

Can anything even be done at this point?

Can they convince themselves that the answer isn’t “no”?

When it takes the typically-chatty Old Hunter a few seconds too long to think of something to say in response, Oliver shoots Theo one last venomous glare, his eyes glistening with something unspilled, then spins back around to step in front of Nickolas, now leading the way in a rush. “I  _know_  this can be stopped,” the younger hunter says sternly — almost commandingly — though his voice still catches in his throat. “I  _have_  seen it happen before, and I have _also_ seen it  _stopped_  before.”

From behind him, he can hear Neil beginning to choke on tears.

Then, for a brief moment, there is silence.

The sanctuary before them is grand — shimmering like porcelain from beneath the moonlight; crumbling at its spires, but still intact and proud. “This is a home for the most desperate of prayers,” Nickolas says, knowing that the others — except, perhaps, Cathal — have never been to this side of the cathedral's ward before. He tries to keep his words scholarly and his tone warm and honest, but even  _his_  resolve is beginning to crack. “It’s been mostly abandoned over the years,” he continues to explain, “but people used to come here when they were deathly ill, or... or when their loved ones were — friends, family, you know.” Deep breath. “They used to call it a place of miracles.”

“It’s like he knew...” Neil says under his breath, mostly to himself, again pulling slightly away from Theo’s protective grasp.

Cathal exhales heavily. “They say one of the last stages is heightened senses, perhaps even a surge of Insight,” he replies to Neil’s rhetorical statement, though that’s honestly the _last_ thing that the Gnorbu had wanted to hear. Cathal is treating this a little too matter-of-factly for any of the others’ tastes, but... well, that’s just how he had learned to treat these sorts of things. It’s a habit. It’s a defence mechanism. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he _did_ know.”

There’s plenty of dark jokes they could all make in this moment, but absolutely none of them feel right.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Oliver reaches the sanctuary’s door first. It’s cracked slightly open, and he could probably squeeze himself through if he tried, but it still feels nearly sacrilege to risk touching any piece of this sacred structure. It really does seem to radiate the purest, most chaste holiness. How ironic. The younger hunter turns to look Nickolas in the eyes, not quite knowing how to feel when he sees just how hollow the cleric’s typically-bright gaze is. This is a side of Nickolas that Oliver thought he would never, ever see. He’d heard rumours that it existed — that it had blossomed many years ago, when Nickolas was once crushed under the pressure of a momentous loss — but, until now, he didn’t really believe what he’d been told. He never thought that Nickolas could be broken. Even in this hour, he still doesn’t want to.

And none of the others’ eyes hold any comfort, either. Cathal’s gaze reads resignation, like he knows that there’s no hope. Theo, despite all of his fury, looks uncharacteristically concerned and calm. Even Neil, who nearly always radiates optimism and love, is already halfway to sobs.

But there _must_ be something that can be done.

 _He_  was the one who had taught them that.

There’s no use in hesitation, so Nickolas pushes the heavy door further open, cautiously peeking inside to make sure that his Insight hadn’t misled them.

He isn’t sure if he’s more relieved or upset that his intuition was, indeed, correct.

Inhale.

Exhale.

At the farthest end of the sanctuary, trembling under the moonlight at the foot of a great altar, Shimon kneels with his hands folded calmly in his lap. His head is lowered in penitence, or shame, or prayer — who knows — but, whatever it is, it’s foreign and cold. His posture is that of a dead man walking. His everything is an emotional mess.

At the sound of the door opening, one of the cream-coloured Gelert’s ears perk up, and he turns to look over his shoulder at whoever’s entered. When the moonlight catches Nickolas’ pale features, and the blood-drunk hunter sees who it is, that distinct, nearly malevolent-looking grin of his is suddenly back at home on his muzzle. “Oh! Nickolas — a  _cleric_  — thank the heavens,” he says, his tone eager and energetic as always, though something rasps at the back of his throat. He then turns back towards the altar, raising his gaze to the saints’ statues that loom threateningly above, shaking his head slightly and chuckling to himself. “I’ve, ah... never prayed before,” he admits, half to the saints and half to Nickolas. “I’ve never felt the need to. So, uh...” — another chuckle — “I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. Maybe you can help so I don’t fuck this up.”

Neil insists on being the next one to enter the sanctuary, his softly begging Theo to stay behind and stay _safe_ still falling silent upon the Bori’s worry-deafened ears. The tall Gnorbu slips his way through the still-narrow crack in the sanctuary’s doors, quickly followed by Theo, who pushes the doors farther open — half for the sake of letting the hunters, too, enter, and half to simply force his way inside.

At the sound of the heavy doors opening further, Shimon turns to look over his shoulder again, this time with a bit of a puzzled expression on his face. “ _Three_  clerics, eh...?” he muses sarcastically when he sees the other two standing to Nicko’s right. “Didn’t realise I needed  _that_  much help.” And he laughs a bit to himself again.

Oliver and Cathal are the last ones to enter, Cathal standing with his posture strong and authoritative; Oliver nearly trembling from head to toe.

But Shimon, ever characteristically, does nothing but smile when he sees them, then softly laugh for a fourth time. “The hell is this?” he asks, his tone still surprisingly sparkling. “Some sort of intervention?”

He sounds almost completely normal.

That just makes this even worse.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Cathal walks up to Nickolas’ side, then gently places one cool hand on the cleric’s shoulder. “Please stay back, my love,” he whispers up to the tall blond, though he still keeps his eyes focused on the pale hunter before him. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Nickolas doesn’t object in the slightest, quickly stepping to the side — back and away — with a small nod of his head. At the same time, Neil again softly begs Theo to do the same. “You could get sick,” he pleads through trembling breaths. “We three are much safer than you two—"

“I don’t care, Neil.”

“ _Please,_ j-just—”

“I am  _not_  leaving you here.”

“Then at least stay back with Brother Nickolas.” Pause. Thankfully, Theo doesn’t object outright this time — not when he looks up frustratedly and sees that the Gnorbu’s uncovered eyes are full of the most fearfully loving desperation that he thinks he’s ever seen. “Make that your duty,” Neil continues, his voice hushing further as his confidence ebbs. “Please. I’ll be okay. But we three need to try to talk to him, and... and since Cathal will be with _us, you_ need to keep Nickolas safe from... f-from...” But he simply can’t finish the thought.

From across the room, Shimon snickers yet again. The familiar sound is just as animated as always, echoing throughout the sanctuary’s walls, painting the tense air’s veil with a false sense of normalcy and cheer. “Couldn’t you all have gotten your whispering out of the way  _before_  you got here?” he teases, sitting back on his heels and propping himself up on one shaking arm, still somehow managing to force his typical sass to his tone — and almost convincingly, even. “It’s like you’re plotting something. Half of you are _painfully_ terrible liars.”

Nobody answers.

Shimon rolls his eyes, still smiling feebly, then looks back towards the altar once more.

Inhale.

Nickolas takes a firm grasp on Theo’s arm, gently tugging the Bori towards his side. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t purposefully eavesdropping in on Theo and Neil’s whispering, and though he’s certain that he could handle himself in a fight, if feigning the need of a guardian is what it takes to keep the headstrong ex-mercenary out of what could very quickly become a messy and deadly fray, then Nickolas is more than willing to play the part of damsel in distress. Honestly — though somehow unsurprisingly — Nickolas is probably the only person in this entire cathedral that not even _Theo_ would ever dare question.

Nickolas' always-delicate fingers so strongly grasping the Bori’s sleeve seems to be the final, deciding motion — a firm case in point to what Neil’s been pleading. With a sigh, a huff, and a worried but scolding glare, Theo finally releases the Gnorbu’s waist.

And Neil suddenly feels completely, utterly vulnerable — an easy kill in an open field.

But it’s better than Theo getting hurt.

Exhale.

Oliver, Cathal, and Neil begin a slow approach towards Shimon’s still-shuddering figure, unsure of what exactly is about to happen, but also all seemingly knowing exactly how this will end. From the other end of the room, Nickolas buries his muzzle into one hand, just trying to not hold his breath. He especially, as keen as he is, can tell that Shimon knows precisely why they’re here. Despite the fact that the pale hunter had spent so, so long in denial, it was clear that the claws of the truth had begun to take a tight hold on him these past few weeks, or months, or perhaps even years. The rest of them, too, though they had remained foolishly silent, were all painfully aware of it as well. They just... chose to remain ignorant, it seems. All of them.  _Every last one_  of them. After all, of all the people in this cruel and wretched world,  _Shimon_  would be the only one who could surely  _escape_  this fate, right? He’d helped so many others in the past do the same; surely he could help _himself..._

What a stupid, stupid thought...

Neil knows that he’s too physically weak to get too terribly close to Shimon, especially if what they all worry — what they all  _know_  — will happen happens, so he lingers a few feet behind the two Christmas Gelerts, just focusing on taking the deepest breaths that he can. Cathal, seeing and sensing just how near the Gnorbu is to collapse — his trembling knees and his quivering breaths — stays close to the grey cleric’s side, as if trying to at least _partially_ fill the void of strength and confidence that Theo — or, ironically, Shimon — would usually call home.

Oliver’s footsteps still fall heavy despite his trying his hardest to be soothing. He has to force himself not to scowl in all his rage at the world. His breathing is louder than his words. He’s tensing from head to toe. “We’re just... worried about you, Shi,” he says, needing to swallow hard after the words leave his mouth to get the bitter taste of withheld truth off his tongue. “We just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Inhale.

Exhale.

The younger Christmas Gelert quickly turns to look behind him, as if to ask his father if he’s doing this right... whatever the hell that _“this”_ may be. The funny thing is, though, the only one who truly has any experience in this field is the one who’s currently ill.

Cathal just gives a slight raising of his chin — a nod in reverse; a motion to continue. He stays silent.

Oliver swallows hard again, taking a few more steps forward.

Neil again chokes on his stifled sobs.

Cathal places a gentle hand on the Gnorbu’s shoulder.

Inhale.

“Please just tell us what’s wrong, Shi,” Oliver says warmly, still slowly approaching the pale hunter’s figure, now a mere few steps behind him. “We want to help out,” he insists in a whisper. “Please, just...” Pause. He’s now directly behind Shimon. He can see just how much the other hunter is shaking. Still, he takes two more steps forward, then kneels at the Gelert’s right side. “Please let us help you...”

He places one tender, loving hand on Shimon’s back, and then suddenly the room’s aura shifts.

Exhale.

Shimon shakes his head, softly but knowingly, a bittersweet smile still on his lips. “I really do appreciate it,” he says, confidently as always, sitting forward once more and folding his hands in his lap. With a heaving, almost sarcastic-seeming sigh, he then leans slightly into Oliver’s half-embrace — rests his cheek on the younger hunter’s shoulder. “You’re all so kind to me.” Pause. “ _Too_  kind.” Another pause. “You all mean so much to me...” He then turns to look over his shoulder again, meeting eyes with all of them in turn, though his gaze eventually stays focused on Neil. “You know that, right?” he asks, his tone more loving than ever before.

When Neil sees the moonlight reflecting nothing but the murkiness of collapsed pupils, he can’t hold back his tears any longer. He bites his lips shut, and he nods his head reassuringly, and he just tries his best to not let his breathing catch too loudly.

Inhale.

Nobody agrees verbally, but their eyes all read the same loving, aching, heartbroken acceptance.

Shimon’s smile brightens slightly, but it’s empty. Then he turns to look back into his hands.

Exhale.

Oliver’s entire everything is now trembling almost as much as Shimon’s as he pulls the pale hunter farther towards him, just wanting this almost-embrace to never end — praying that it never, never will. “We love you too,” he says with a small smile, knowing that that’s what Shimon had meant with his last stumbled-over sentence. He’s always struggled with that one funny word, though. Always has. Always will. “Just...” Pause. Shimon fiddles with the hem of his shawl, relaxing into the coolness of Oliver’s chest. The Christmas Gelert takes a deep breath, then leans forward to try to meet the paler Gelert’s eyes. “That’s why we’re here, _Liebling_ ,” Oliver says. “Because we all love you so,  _so_  much.” Pause again. “Just... just tell us what we need to do.” And again. “Please, just... tell us what we need to do to... stop this...”

“ _‘To_ stop _this...’_ ” Shimon repeats the words under his breath, his sentence dissolving into a bit of an unnatural growl at its cadence. He pauses for a moment in thought, then finally lifts his murky — but somehow still-sparkling — eyes ever so slightly. But only to nod his head in the direction of the sanctuary’s rightmost corner. “Well, my scythe is over there, for starters,” he says with a low chuckle and a wicked grin. “That’s one way. The _preferred_ way, honestly.”

In this moment, the only thing that Oliver hates more than that dark joke is the fact that he completely understands it.

Oliver shakes his head in response to the statement, as if hoping that the motion will cause the grim knowing of what Shimon is talking about to come loose and fall away. Shimon doesn’t address Oliver’s reaction in his next statement, but rather turns to look over his shoulder once more. He meets eyes with Neil for a brief second, silently reiterating a secret promise that the two of them had shared long ago, then he turns his focus to Cathal as Neil frantically shakes his head and pleads _no, no, no_ under his breath. Once more, Shimon softly nods his head in his scythe’s direction. “Have him use that,” he says, though Cathal doesn’t quite understand the entire statement. The Old Hunter makes a puzzled face as Shimon gives a bittersweet smile. “It’s, ah... _humane_ , I guess. Quick, at least. That’s partly why I’ve always favoured it for this sort of thing.”

It really is strange how Shimon still maintains his soft smile; but, well, that’s just the kind of person that he is.

Cathal, though he still doesn’t completely understand the first half of Shimon’s statement, gives a solemn nod in his understanding and acceptance of the rest.

And with that, Shimon finally turns to look back into his hands, then decides to give a slightly-more-serious answer to Oliver’s question — makes a bit of a sarcastic face, then bats one hand weakly in the Christmas Gelert’s direction. “Nothing else can be done anymore,” he says, “and don’t act like you didn’t know that this whole time. You _all_ knew. Don’t lie. You all _absolutely_ did.”

Inhale.

Exhale.

Oliver breathes as deep as he can; then, “Knew... what?” he decides to play coy — as if that could stop the now-clearly-inevitable.

One last time — indeed, for the  _very last_  time — Shimon chuckles a bit under his breath.

He lifts his glistening eyes up to meet Oliver’s, still smiling. Then, “That it was only a matter of time.”

Convulsions.

Shimon suddenly shouts in pain and violently doubles over, wrapping his arms tightly around himself as if trying to hold his body intact. He leans away from Oliver’s touch, but Oliver refuses to let go — refuses to just let this happen. “Shimon, you can fight this,” he says — he pleads — as Shimon’s muscles twitch and his joints crack and split. Oliver’s voice crescendos along with his partner’s pained screams. “Just stay calm," he begs. "Stay focused on _here_. Stay focused on _now_. Stay focused on _who you are_ —"

Cracking.

It’s as if something within him is trying to get out, gnawing and clawing from inside. An almost magical darkness begins to shroud Shimon’s body as skin splits and tendons snap, at first shrouding his figure in an eerie purplish-black, then haloing him in a bright, golden light — golden, but far from saintly.

Blood.

Cathal refuses to let his son’s stubborn heart be the death of him. “Oliver, get away from him!” the Old Hunter desperately shouts, then begins a frantic sprint towards the two of them, leaving Neil behind to catch his weak and bated breaths in the palms of his own shaking hands. But Oliver doesn’t listen. He absolutely refuses to. He just keeps calling and pleading and praying that whatever he’s doing will help, but no matter how hard he searches his mind and heart for an epiphany, he just doesn’t know how to stop this. Shimon is the only one who does. He knows how to stop this. Why isn’t he stopping this?

Cathal knew that he wouldn’t be able to reach them before it happened, but he still doesn’t break pace until it does.

Whatever it is that’s been trying to get out finally does so in a rain of blood and light.

It’s as if it physically bursts out of him — this beast that had been clawing from within. The force of the transformation is almost like a shockwave, strong enough that even Nickolas and Theo can feel its pressure against their ankles. Oliver and Cathal are both sent skidding across the floor, clawing desperately at the ground to ensure that they can at least land on their hands and knees. Neil, who still stands stifling his sobs with his hands, somehow manages to stay on his feet, though he stumbles a bit from the force.

And when the light finally dies, Neil’s the first one to see it.

He’s the first one to scream Shimon’s name.


	2. To Dust

Calling what now stands before them a “cleric beast” wouldn’t at all be technically correct, but it’s the closest thing that the beast is akin to, and its growling is all but the same. Heavy antlers rest upon its angular head; narrow eyes set above a set of crooked, razor-edged teeth. Its neck is long and craned, a mess of tangled white fur clinging to its neck and back and arms. It towers above them all now, black claws leaving bloody streaks across the sanctuary’s floor as it struggles to stand and learn its own body’s weight. It almost sounds like it’s whimpering at first; but then...

The very second that Cathal and Oliver make it to their feet, they both take staggered, breathless steps back — to the beast’s left and right, successfully flanking it in every direction. Oliver looks like he’s fit to collapse, all light now gone from his yellow eyes. Cathal looks like he’s preparing for a fight, his hunter’s instinct manifesting in a scowl.

The beast slowly turns its head, then its bloodshot eyes settle on the Gnorbu that stands directly behind it — shaking and sobbing; silently begging the gods to stop something that’s already happened.

Everything next happens in the same second.

The beast lets out a horrific screech and pivots to slam one giant, clawed paw onto the ground, making the entire sanctuary shake — the stained glass windows rattle, and the velvet curtains sway. Cathal, far used to these sorts of things — though never quite in such a directly personal context — has already used his powerful arcane energy to summon a heavy whip into his hands. Once more, he calls Oliver’s name across the room as the beast takes another heavy step.

When Oliver finally manages to tear his eyes away from the once-a-hunter before him and turns to face his father, he sees the Old Hunter sliding some sort of arcane weapon across the floor in his direction, quick as a lightning strike. Its steel blade makes a horrible hissing sound across the once-pristine marble floors, catching the beast’s attention for a few split seconds, though its narrowed eyes once again focus back on Neil. It takes another step. Then another. And another.

Oliver runs — stumbles, regains his footing, then runs again — to pick up what he’s being given: a blade of mercy. He’s only handled this particular sort of blade once or twice before, but he’s thankful that he wasn’t given something more... cruel. This isn’t a beast that stands before them, he tries to remind himself. It isn’t. _He_ isn’t. They can’t think of him like that. They can stop this. They can _fix_ this. They have to.

Once Oliver has the weapon in his hands and has begun to test its weight, he turns his focus back to the sanctuary’s entrance, desperately calling across the room, “Nickolas, Theodore, get out of here!”

The clerics both refuse to move, though — out of shock, out of love, who knows. Silent tears streak Nickolas’ pale cheeks, his shaking hands catching his each bated breath.

From beside the older cleric, Theo panics when he sees that the beast’s current target is clearly Neil, but his throat is too tight to yell. He goes to take a step forward, but before he can even begin to run, Nickolas’ arms wrap tightly around his chest, yanking him back into the shadows of the doorframe. Though far less strong, the taller cleric plants his heels into the ground and tries to hold the Bori back with all his might. “You can’t go in there,” he says, his voice desperate and uncharacteristically panicked. “You can’t risk infection. You aren’t like them. You and I are _both_ not like them. We need to leave. _Now._ ”

Despite the fact that the beast is now inches away from Neil and has lifted one giant paw to strike — perhaps even to kill — the Gnorbu still turns around to look to the two other clerics rather than react, calling out to the both of them: “Please, just leave! Get to safety!”

Cathal and Oliver have both begun to charge towards the beast, knowing full well that Neil is too weak to fight... but they aren’t quick enough. Theo hysterically calls Neil’s name in a panicked half-screech as the beast takes a violent swipe; but Neil, seemingly using his Insight — or, perhaps, just simple in _stinct_ — perfectly times and predicts the movement, ducking nimbly out of the way. The beast’s claws catch nothing but the floor, leaving a scattering trail of sparks.

It’s been so many years that they all seem to have forgotten:

Neil was once a hunter too.

Theo, still softly struggling against Nickolas’ grasp, calls desperately again as the beast lifts its arm once more. “Neil, just come with us! It’s too late! _Get out of there!_ ”

Remaining positioned on the sanctuary’s lefthand side, Cathal has finally gotten close enough to catch the beast’s arm with the serrated coil of his whip, and so he does so without remorse. The beast screeches in pain as the threaded cane’s razor-sharp teeth dig deep into its skin, then turns to face its attacker while the other two hunters both call out to Cathal in unison: “ _Don’t hurt him!_ ”

Theo is still shouting from across the sanctuary, slowly writhing his way out of Nicko’s worried arms. “ _Neil, get the fuck out of there!_ ”

Seeing that the beast’s focus is now wholly on Cathal, Neil turns aggressively on his heels to face the two clerics behind him, though he also begins to take a few wobbly steps towards the beast rather than towards safety. “I am _not_ leaving him like this!” Neil cries, his voice louder and shriller than any of them thought he could ever muster. It seems that his own beast blood has begun to take him over in this moment — to take over his body and voice, at least — giving strength to his limbs and adding a shrieking rasp to his words. He then turns back to look at Cathal, unsure of how to feel when he hears the Old Hunter and his son heatedly arguing in equal parts shouts and sobs over whether or not to attack the beast before them.

Neil turns back around, the sounds of the fighting making his heart race even more than it already had been. “I am _not_ leaving him,” he reiterates, firmly and loudly, his voice strong and full of the most steadfast authority that any of them have heard there before. “I need to talk to him. I can reach him. I _have_ to.”

The beast takes a few strong swipes at Cathal, but the older Christmas Gelert dodges each and every attack without a single stumbled step — child’s play to someone as skilled as him. “Oliver, there is _nothing_ we can do,” he aggressively barks at his son, who still has done nothing since the transformation other than try to meet the beast’s eyes. “He’s gone! It’s over! It’s just a beast now!”

Oliver refuses to accept that probably-a-truth, though. He ignores his father completely. “Shimon, you have to snap out of this!” he calls desperately up to the beast. “You can fight this! I know you can! I know the _real_ you is still in there somewhere — _you can fight this!_ ”

Seeing that Oliver clearly isn’t going to budge in his misplaced morality, Cathal groans loudly in rage, then lifts his whip to strike the beast’s weakened arm again. Much to his furious dismay, though, Oliver dashes over to his side just in time to stop the whip’s strike with his own weapon, nearly tackling Cathal to the ground in the process. “ _Don’t hurt him!_ ”

Finally turning his attention away from Theo’s frantic shouting, Neil begins to run headfirst into the fray. He mirror’s Oliver’s words as he rushes towards Cathal — towards the beast. “Cathal, don’t hurt him! Please, let us speak to him first!”

The beast swipes again, spinning its entire body around as if hoping to hit all three hunters at once. Oliver is the only one who gets caught by its claws, though — the others are too nimble in their reflexes. If it were any other fight, or against any other beast, Oliver would _definitely_ have been able to avoid the attack as well, but it seems as though his emotions are getting the best of him in this moment. He can’t think straight. He’s too overwhelmed. He’s tossed painfully to the ground, then sent skidding across the smooth marble floor, though he still skilfully — thankfully — lands on his feet. He runs immediately back to where he stood just moments ago, still calling up to the beast before them. “Please, just remember who you are! I know you can! Just listen to us! _Please!_ ”

Now flanked on all sides again, the beast lifts both of its arms high into the air, far above Cathal’s head, then slams them down with a deafening screech, again rattling the sanctuary’s everything and causing the floor to crumble beneath their feet. Once again, though, and with painful passivity, the Old Hunter effortlessly dodges the attack, and then...

And then he catches the beast’s eyes.

They’re still familiar.

Gold.

And at that sight, he finally remembers — remembers that... the others are right.

Something _can_ be done.

In fact...

 _Shimon_ was the one who had taught them all that.

The beast rears up for another swipe as Oliver and Neil both rush to Cathal’s side — into the monster’s field of vision. Oliver, panicked when he sees the beast’s sudden movement, immediately darts in front of his father, holding his blade strong in both hands, preparing to catch and deflect another crack of the whip.

But Cathal has exhaled his instinct, and has breathed in those golden eyes. Rather than retaliate as the others had all expected, he instead snaps his whip back into its rigid cane form, then holds it out threateningly, but with no real intent on attacking. “Don’t do this, Shimon,” he says in a low growl, the name leaving a foul taste on his tongue when mixed with the reminder of what — of _who_ — this beast really is. “I know that you don’t want to hurt them, Shimon,” he continues, raising his voice slightly when he sees the other two hunters’ eyes soften with relief. “I know how much you love them.”

The beast swipes again, and all of them dodge in slightly separate directions. Once they’ve all made it back onto their feet, Cathal turns his focus to Neil. “You need to leave,” he states firmly as Oliver, confident that his father isn’t going to blindly attack any longer, runs back to the beast’s left side.

Neil’s reply is immediate, and harbours just as much authority as Cathal’s: “I am _not_ leaving him.”

The beast spins around on its haunches, seeming disoriented by its suddenly being flanked on all sides once more. It rears up with a deafening screech, causing the two clerics who still stand across the room to cringe and grind their teeth, not used to the piercing timbre of monsters’ cries the way that the hunters all are.

Cathal lifts his eyes back up to the beast for a few short seconds, quickly sizing up the situation, then shifts his position to better flank the beast. “You could get _killed_ , Nei—”

“ _I don’t care._ ”

Oliver still hasn’t stopped his desperate pleading, repeating the same seemingly-futile sentiment over and over: “Remember who you are. Remember _where_ you are. Remember _us!_ Remember what _you taught us!_ ”

Cathal has _never_ heard Neil speak with such resolution before, despite knowing him for over twenty years now. Honestly, he never would have thought that the gentle Gnorbu was even _capable_ of mustering such a commanding tone. He _never_ disobeys. He _never_ questions authority. But... well, this is different. It’s _clearly_ different. Shimon was like a father to Neil — and Neil, to him, like a son. The worst part is that, in a sense, the Gnorbu still clearly feels that he — that this monster — is still, at the core, the very same man who rescued him all those years ago. The one who had kept him safe. The one who had given him a new chance at life. The one who had first showed him love. The one who had saved his life.

But before any of the hunters can make any final decisions on what their next moves should be, the beast, surprising all of them, pauses in its every motion, spinning around and backing up towards the altar to look them each in turn.

Unsure of what is happening, the three hunters all turn their full attention towards the great beast, Oliver still pleading for remembrance, Neil still trying to steady his breath.

It’s obvious now that none of them are going to attack.

And it’s almost as if the beast knows this.

But then, it lifts its eyes towards Nickolas.

 _Directly_ towards Nickolas.

And something about its gaze makes the older cleric’s stomach sink.

Cathal is the first to realise exactly what is happening, though the realisation hits him just a split second too late. The beast rears up onto its strong hind legs, then takes a mighty leap into the air, soaring completely over Neil’s head and landing halfway across the room. “For fuck’s sake, Shimon...” Cathal mutters under his breath, more out of reflex than anything else, then begins a frantic pursuit.

Oliver finally stops shouting when he sees the beast lunge itself towards the sanctuary’s door, Cathal a mere few steps behind it, desperate to stop it from reaching its target. When the two younger hunters turn and see what the beast is doing — see who it currently has its eyes set on — they both gasp in unison and begin a desperate sprint.

Theo and Nickolas are both too shocked to react — too unfamiliar with the art of beast hunting to have any idea how to escape the monster’s onyx claws. The beast begins to skid to a halt before the two clerics, one strong arm held high above its head in preparation to strike, but Cathal manages to make it there in time. Unthreading his cane back into its deadly whip form, the Old Hunter gives the beast a hard crack across the shoulder, causing it to shriek and pause in its motion to kill. On the recoil, the whip’s strong serrated edge snaps tight around the beast’s still-lifted forearm, and Cathal yanks it back with all of his might, successfully splintering the beast’s brittle bones. With a screech of pain, the beast is stopped dead in its tracks, a rain of blood gushing from the wound left in its half-broken limb.

Oliver is the one who says it this time, now on the beast’s opposite side: “Nicko, Theo, _leave!_ ”

And Neil reinstates as Cathal drags the bloody whip back towards him and pulls it back to prepare for another strike. “Go now!” he commands sternly. “Theo, help Nickolas, _please!_ ”

The beast, though now horribly injured, still turns its head to look back at the two stun-silenced clerics.

That seems to be all that they needed to see.

They both have made up their minds.

The beast’s full focus is still set adamantly on Nickolas, and Theo can see this plain as day. When that realisation finally takes root in the Bori’s spinning mind, his protective instincts all suddenly surge forth, redirecting entirely towards his mentor. Without another second’s hesitation, Theo shoves the sanctuary’s doors open as the beast rears up for another leap, then grabs Nickolas by the arm and quickly — almost aggressively — pulls him into the coolness of the still night air.

Though the others are now safely outside, the beast still leaps towards the door. Still panicked beyond belief, and worried as hell for his husband’s safety, Cathal brutally strikes the beast across the same shoulder with his whip — one, two, three more times — and even Oliver takes a strong swipe at its ankles with his blade, just desperate to make it stop — to make it focus on _them_ instead.

But the beast doesn’t break through the doors, despite the fact that it definitely has the strength to. In fact, the swipe it ends up landing is so unnaturally soft, it’s almost as if it were... closing them. Purposefully. Its claws smack the heavy wood, slamming the doors shut, then it spins around, screeching with the pain of both of the Gelerts’ attacks, but now wholly fixated back on its old prey.

After seeing everything that’s just happened, and realising the implications within it all, Cathal’s only gut reaction is just to laugh — absolutely, manically deranged. “You bloody bastard,” he cusses loudly, his shoulders heaving with his each furious breath, “you know exactly what you’re doing! You did that on _purpose_ , didn’t you?!”

The beast swipes at the Old Hunter again with its uninjured arm, and Cathal is done giving second chances. He dodges the attack, then cracks his whip across the beast’s face, causing another shriek and a shower of blood.

At this point, Oliver isn’t sure what to do anymore. His words aren’t helping. The beast isn’t listening.

Or, maybe...

Maybe it’s simply choosing _not_ to.

Does... does it really know what it’s doing?

Is it really doing this on purpose?

Does it really want them to attack?

_What the hell is going on?!_

With its jaws now bleeding and crumbling from Cathal’s merciless attacks, the beast changes its strategy, leaping back over Neil’s head towards the middle of the room, then spinning around to face them — to half-trap them against the doors. In Oliver’s hopelessly unsure silence, Neil has now taken the role of speaker. He steps forward fearlessly, his own pawsteps mirroring each of the beast’s steps back. “Shimon, please,” he says, his voice finally filling with its typical warmth once more, though his words are still loud and desperate. “Please fight back against this!” he begs. “I know you can. _You_ were the one who taught _me_ how to do it — who taught us _all_ that such a thing was even _possible!_ ”

The beast steps forward and feigns a threatening swipe. This time, Oliver is the one whose blade catches its claws. He darts forward in front of the tall Gnorbu, deflecting the beast’s hesitant swipe, then gives it a hard slice across its uninjured shoulder, causing it to hiss and shriek.

Neil’s next breath is shuddered, and his next words are too whispered for the beast to possibly hear — a prayer to nobody but himself and the gods: “Please don’t make us kill you...”

“ _Neil._ ”

Cathal’s voice is stern.

With the beast’s focus now entirely on Oliver — Oliver, who has begun running across the room towards the altar, baiting the beast to follow him into a more open space — Cathal summons another arcane weapon into his hands: a simple saw cleaver.

When Neil turns to look, he sees the Old Hunter handing him the sturdy weapon, and the sight hits him like a kick in the chest. “If you stay, you fight,” Cathal states strictly. “I know that you know how to use this.”

The sight of the weapon sends a surge of painful remembrance down the Gnorbu’s spine — memories of battles, and beatings, and starvation, and loneliness — and he feels his entire body tense. Cathal didn’t expect Neil to take the weapon with any sort of eagerness, so he patiently gives the cleric a few moments to collect his thoughts — to decide if he’s strong enough to do this.

But only a few moments.

The sound of another shrill screech echoes through the sanctuary’s walls, and Cathal turns to look in Oliver and the beast’s direction. The Gelert’s gaze turns panicked when he sees Oliver struggling to fight what otherwise would probably be an easy kill — the younger hunter’s emotions are still clearly getting the best of him; still clearly hindering his every motion. For each hit that he lands, he takes one in return, and though he’s now begun to continue his desperate pleading, his words are constantly being cut short as he’s forced to leap back to avoid being impaled by black claws.

Cathal’s words are now resolute as he shoves the cleaver into Neil’s shaking hands. “ _You fight or you leave,_ ” he reiterates firmly — almost threateningly.

Neil had already made up his mind, though. In fact — though Cathal doesn’t know _this_  in particular — he had made up his mind _years_ ago. The still-nervous Gnorbu grabs the cleaver and skilfully twirls it in his unmutated hand, testing its awkward weight for the first time in well over twenty years. He then snaps its hinge open with all the grace and ease of an Old Hunter, the sight of which allows Cathal to breathe out just the slightest bit of his worry. Of course Neil knows how to use it. Of course he remembers how.

And with that, Neil turns and runs to help Oliver, still calling out Shimon’s name.

At the sound of the Gnorbu’s voice growing closer, the beast turns to look in the other two’s direction, finally lowering its guard. As it’s distracted, Oliver manages to land a solid, brutal hit on the beast’s right arm, further shattering the already-splintering bone. As the two other hunters arrive at Oliver’s side, the beast screeches in pain and sways with half-lost balance, all of its focus now turned to its own blood-spurting wound.

When the beast looks back up — back at Oliver — with nothing but violence reflecting in its golden eyes, Neil takes a strong swipe with his cleaver across the beast’s face to try to redirect its attention. The weapon’s serrated edge catches against the soft flesh of the monster’s cheek, yanking the beast’s face and focus away from Oliver — away, and instead towards Neil. The retired hunter’s skill with the weapon is incredible, especially after so many years of nonviolence. “Stop this!” Neil commands, his voice half-screeching now that his own beast blood is being invigorated by the fight. “Why are you doing this? Why do you want us to hurt you?!”

Suddenly, and with speed that none of them have yet seen, the beast lifts its uninjured arm high above its head, seemingly intent on crushing Neil where he stands.

But Neil’s Insight is too keen.

And he makes a realisation.

As the beast’s clawed fist descends, Neil closes his eyes, braces himself, and holds still.

The other two call the Gnorbu’s name out of panic, Oliver trying to quickly stab his blade into the beast’s thigh as a distraction while Cathal tries to grab its descending arm with his whip.

They’re both too late, though.

The move was too quick.

But when the beast’s claws strike the ground, and the dust of the now-shattered marble floors begins to settle, they see that... the attack has completely missed. The half-cowering Gnorbu is completely unscathed.

It’s almost as if... the beast missed on _purpose..._

As the other two’s attacks land — in unison, it seems — the beast’s entire left side collapses from beneath it. Its hind leg’s muscles spasm from the iciness of Oliver’s blade as Cathal’s whip violently yanks at its unbroken arm.

The beast falls hard onto its flank, though its eyes stay fixed on Neil’s.

The other two ready further attacks while Neil whispers down at the half-immobilised beast. “You don’t actually want to hurt us, do you?”

Another crack of the whip.

Another laceration from the blade.

“This is just your way of asking for death...”

Before the others can follow through with their next attacks, the beast lets out a horrible shriek and rears up high onto its haunches. The two Gelerts can no longer follow through with their planned motions — the beast’s position has shifted too much. Somewhat clumsily, they each pause, take a few quick steps back, refocus their attention on the beast’s new stance. Then Oliver is suddenly yelling again: “Don’t do this, Shimon! _Please_ don’t do this! _Please!_ ”

Cathal’s reflexes and instincts are both far faster than either of the two younger hunters’, and he can easily tell that whatever is now happening simply can’t be good. With a skilfully aimed crack, Cathal’s whip wraps around the beast’s right arm once more, but this time, when he pulls back sharply, the limb finally bends, then snaps. The beast rears up and roars — an anguished, heartbreaking sound — as its bones break and a rain of blood floods out of the open wound. Its pale fur is completely stained crimson. Its right arm is useless. It rests its weight on its left side. It turns its attention towards... Oliver.

Oliver, who still cries out desperately, calling the once-hunter’s name and begging it to stop. Begging it to find itself. Begging it to fight the blood. Begging it to _remember._

The beast sits back up on its haunches again as Cathal struggles to release his whip from the thick flesh, then the beast attempts to slam its unbroken paw down upon the younger Gelert’s head. Oliver dodges the attack, but just barely, tumbling across the ground and landing clumsily on his feet. Neil didn’t realise it until just now, but the younger Gelert’s eyes are completely filled with — completely blinded by — silently cascading tears. It’s a miracle that he can even see. It’s a miracle that he isn’t dead yet.

Neil raises his voice once more, again looking up towards the beast. “Leave him alone, Shimon!” he commands, then snaps his cleaver open once more, preparing for another attempt at catching the beast’s crumbling jaws. Its entire focus is now on the younger Christmas Gelert, though — unfaltering. Cathal sees this at the same time that Neil does. “Just stop this fighting!” Neil continues to shout. “ _You_ were the one who taught us about merciful deaths, now lie down and accept your own!”

Which... was probably the worst thing he could have said in this moment.

Those words seem to be the absolute breaking point for Oliver — they strike him like a gunshot to the gut. It’s as if the younger Gelert suddenly, _completely_ forgets that he’s fighting anything when he hears Neil’s words, and he instead spins around to fully, undistractedly face the cleric. “We are _not_ killing him!” he shouts menacingly, his voice desperate, hoarse, and deranged. “He can’t die! _He can’t die!_ ”

Frantic now, and no longer being told to stop by either of the younger hunters, Cathal skilfully aims his finally-freed whip to wrap around one of the beast’s black antlers. As the teeth of his weapon clench tightly around their target, he yanks back with full force, and the beast’s head snaps backwards as it lets out another cry. When the brittle bone breaks from beneath Cathal’s serrated whip, the force of its suddenly being let go causes the beast’s body to fall forward and slam onto the ground.

Despite all of this happening mere inches to Oliver’s right, it’s as if he doesn’t notice at all. He takes a strong, threatening step towards Neil, pointing his blade at the Gnorbu’s nose. Neil responds before Oliver can say anything more, though. He’s begun to cry again. His words are a mess of trembles. “We don’t have a choice, Ollie...”

When the beast begins to prop itself back up onto its hind legs, then lifts its unbroken arm for a swipe, Cathal quickly repeats his last motion of attack, this time grabbing the beast’s other antler. His whip wraps tightly around one narrow branch as Oliver yells back at Neil. “How could you possibly say that?! You, a fucking _beast_ , of all people?!”

Cathal pulls his whip back, again arching the beast’s neck... but this time, it’s too late. The beast’s claws have already found their target.

Cathal and Neil both see it coming before it happens, gasping desperately in unison. Panicked, horrified, they both reflexively do the most useless thing they possibly could in this moment: call out Oliver’s name and reach their arms out towards him.

Oliver doesn’t even see the beast’s black claws before they impale him from behind.


	3. To Ashes

Neil screams loud enough that he could swear he tastes blood on his tongue. Cathal is suddenly consumed with more fury than any of them have ever seen in person before. The beast tosses Oliver’s body across the room like nothing more than a broken toy, leaving a thick trail of blood and gore as the younger Gelert skids across the marble. His body lands with a painful _thud!_ against the sanctuary’s leftmost wall — motionless.

Mere moments ago, when the beast had attacked and seemingly-purposefully missed Neil, the young Gnorbu had felt hope in his heart. He thought that he’d figured it out. He thought that Shimon really _was_ still in there, begging for help, not wanting to hurt them, just wanting to finally die. But now...

Neil watches in horror as Oliver’s undead-cursed body slowly dissolves into black ash and light, but... well, that’s actually the only silver lining to this horrific moment: he’ll be back. He always comes back. That’s the nature of the curse he and Cathal both bare, and Neil knows it. _Cathal_ knows it. And maybe... maybe the beast, too — maybe _Shimon_ — still also knows it.

_Wait..._

_Did he only kill Oliver because he knew he would come back...?_

The thought desperately tries to revive Neil’s optimism, but... no, no, they can’t take any chances. They can’t allow those sorts of maybes to sway their thoughts. If they leave room for what-ifs, they leave room for mercy, and that isn’t a luxury they can afford anymore.

Because now they know that the beast isn’t holding back.

Now they know that it isn’t afraid to kill.

Cathal’s words are practically incoherent now as he mercilessly flogs the beast with his whip, cussing and shouting in his native Darigan tongue, his every motion almost as frightening and bestial as the prey set before them. But still, despite its obvious pain, and the shower of blood, and the screeching and whimpering, the beast still somehow manages to stand back on its hind legs, propping itself up on its mostly-uninjured arm. It turns to look at Cathal, almost... almost _smiling..._

And Neil’s completely lost all hope.

He’s... not in there.

If he was, he would never have hurt Oliver in that way, not even with the knowing of the hunter’s undead curse.

What was it that Shimon had told him on that one cold night, so many years ago?

_“Sometimes, they’re just buried too deep._

_Sometimes, there’s just nothing that can be done.”_

It takes a few seconds — a few century-long seconds of Neil centring himself while the beast’s focus is set solely on Cathal — but he eventually manages to do it. He looks up at the beast in front of him, and he tells himself aloud:

“Shimon is already dead.”

Cathal could handle the beast on his own, honestly. He’s completely detached now — detached from the idea of who this monster once was. He still yells and cusses, demanding answers for what the fuck the beast was thinking in killing someone it once loved, but he still is treating it now as nothing but what it is: a beast.

But Neil refuses to just leave Cathal to it, and he refuses to just stand and watch. There was something else that he was told on that very same night. Something vitally important. Something that Shimon had reminded him of mere minutes before this fight had begun.

With a deep breath of pained, crestfallen acceptance of what he now must do, Neil pulls the soft white blindfold that had been gently resting around his neck up to cover his eyes, tying it tight at the back of his neck, then lets his Insight — and his once-dormant hunter’s instincts — take over his every sense.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Cathal’s eyes dart over to Neil for one split second, unsure of what the Gnorbu is doing. He’s about to yell at Neil to just get the hell out of the sanctuary and let him finish this messy job, but Neil’s motions are too quick and precise for even Cathal to react to in time. With more speed and might than either of them really knew Neil was capable of, the grey once-a-hunter darts to the beast’s right side, then attacks its ankles with a few strong swipes of the cleaver he still desperately clutches in his hands. He lets the weapon’s blade snap open and shut with each powerful swing, the force of which is strong enough to strike the beast to its very bones.

The beast screeches and turns to look at what’s happening behind it, but the cracking of Cathal’s whip keeps its eyes’ focus on he himself instead.

Out of pure habit of working with younger, inexperienced hunters, Cathal is about to command Neil to keep trying to take out the beast’s legs, but it seems that Neil had already planned that out. He strikes the beast’s right leg over and over and over again, weakening it until the brittle bone finally crumbles against the cleaver’s serrated teeth, and the beast falls hard onto its side.

Once again, Cathal is about to tell Neil what his next move should be — to tell him to run to, attack, and immobilise the monster’s _left_ side — but by the time he’s leapt out of the way of the collapsing beast and opened his mouth to speak, he looks up to see that Neil is already furiously slashing away at cartilage and tendons, slowly severing the beast’s last completely uninjured limb.

Cathal can’t help but pause to simply watch. Neil... really was once a great hunter, wasn’t he?

When the brittle bones finally break and crumble, the beast completely collapses onto its stomach, writhing desperately and uselessly in a pool of its own blood, though really only able to move its half-broken left arm. Practically immobilised, its claws can’t reach either of them. Its jaws are tired. It’s been reduced to nothing but an easy kill. Cathal readies his whip...

But the Old Hunter didn’t see Neil approaching from his side. Wordlessly at first, the Gnorbu attempts to shove Cathal away from the beast at their feet — attempts to stop his final, killing blow — though he ends up simply falling against the older hunter’s much stronger, heavier frame. “Don’t kill him!” Neil pleads, grabbing weakly onto Cathal’s right wrist, his still-covered eyes leaving streaks of tears down his freckled cheeks

As the half-dead beast uselessly swipes and snaps at their feet, screeching and whimpering through pained, desperate breaths, Cathal can’t help but laugh. He snaps his whip back into its rigid cane form, then points it rather playfully towards the Gnorbu’s chest. “You really expect me to keep that thing _ali—?_ ”

“Let me do it.”

Silence.

 

~

 

_Neil fiddles with the hem of the unfamiliar tunic he’s now clothed in, toying with the soft fabric, just trying to appreciate the lightness and comfort that it offers him — he, who hasn’t been warm and fed and clean in what feels like countless years. This feels like a dream. This feels like a blessing. He’s finally feeling safe..._

_But the weight of the words he’s just said still hang like disease in the air._

_Shimon has been chatty this entire time — as usual, it seems, especially since the young Gnorbu is still clearly uncomfortable talking to these near-strangers — but even_ he _has fallen silent now, genuinely horrified by what he’s just been asked. Though Neil has only known this strange hunter for a mere few weeks — maybe a month in total — the sudden halt in their conversation feels unnatural enough to be chilling._

_For a few uncomfortable moments, a silence settles between them._

_Shimon struggles to stifle his nervous laugh. “Wh— uh...” Pause. He fights harder to keep himself from laughing. Not like what Neil had just said was_ funny _— not by any stretch of the imagination — but this sort of hollow laughter is the only reflex he has when he’s made to feel this horrifyingly uncomfortable. “What did you just say?”_

_Neil raises his voice slightly — still barely a whisper, but louder than it seems he’s ever been before. “If I turned completely, would you kill me?” he reiterates, his words somehow even more blunt than before._

_Shimon has begun to twirl the empty glass in his hands now, anxiously tapping his clawed nails against its rim. He was honestly hoping that his asking Neil to repeat the question would cause the boy’s nerves to kick in — cause the young hunter to grow embarrassed by what he’d just said, then turn away apologising and refusing to address the topic again (as is his typical response) — but..._

_Well, clearly this particular question is just too important to let go._

_Shimon looks over to the grey Gnorbu who sits on the edge of the bed beside him, the tall but young hunter’s concealed eyes clearly downcast as he fidgets with his fur and his clothing nervously, his head angled slightly away, his knees pulled protectively up to his chest, him simply waiting for an honest answer to a very, very frightening question._

_The worst part is, they both know that the answer is “yes.”_

_But Shimon still doesn’t know what to say._

_It takes far too long, and each passing second makes the air feel heavier, but Shimon finally lets slip a nervous chuckle._

_Neil’s ears press back a bit farther at the sound. The laughter seems almost deranged. This powerful hunter — a hunter whom Neil has yet to see with his blasphemous outer eyes — has always had a rather dark, rather menacing natural timbre to his tenor, but something in this particular moment is making him sound... different. Neil isn’t entirely sure_ how _it is that he sounds different, but... well, he does._

_And Neil suddenly feels unsafe again._

_Despite everything this kind man has done for him, he still isn’t quite sure if he can trust him..._

_But it’s clear when Shimon finally speaks again that he was simply trying to think of the best, most roundabout way to word his answer, just so it wouldn’t come off quite as cold. His rich and pleasant — though still oddly ominous — voice is sparkling with a few hints of sincere, albeit worried laughter. “Well...” Pause. He clears his throat. He taps his nails against the glass a few more times. He exhales long. “If... if_ I _were ever to turn,” he says, “then... I would hope that you’d do the same.”_

_Well... that’s a bit of an odd answer._

Is he implying that he would want  _me specifically_ to kill him...?

 _Neil didn’t realise that he’d said that last thought aloud until he hears Shimon laugh again — louder this time, and with more of his typical energy. “Well... why not?” the older hunter chuckles, leaning forward a bit as if trying to meet the Gnorbu’s concealed eyes. “You are without a doubt the kindest hunter that I’ve ever met,” he continues. “Sure as hell are a lot nicer than Oliver, and don’t even get me_ started _on his ticking time bomb of a father...” He’s being facetious, obviously, but the joke still manages to make Neil smile, though it’s clear that the Gnorbu is fighting the urge. “I, ah...” Pause. Shimon looks down into his hands for a brief second, then back up at the Gnorbu beside him. “I have faith that you would do the deed w_ _ith the utmost mercy at heart, hm?”_

_Silence._

_But at least this time the silence is warm._

_Neil honestly isn’t sure if Shimon is only bringing this up with the intention of distracting him from his own question, but regardless, he’s glad that the older hunter is at least trying to lighten the mood. Maybe Shimon’s question was rhetorical, or maybe it was meant as a joke, but Neil still gives it a long, serious thought, as if it were the most important thing in the world._

_Finally, with a soft sigh — a soft cough into one frail fist, and then another exhale — Neil nods his head gently, though his smile fades just the tiniest bit. “I, um...” Pause. He sighs again. Then, “I... I guess I’m confident in saying the same about you, sir,” he says._

_Shimon exhales most of his remaining worry after his next deep breath, smiling warmly and nodding in return. “So... we’ve got ourselves a deal then, hm?” he asks, resting one elbow on his knee and holding his cheek in his fist, still somehow managing to keep this terribly dark conversation light and full of nothing but smiles. “Promise me that you’ll do the honours, and I promise that I’ll do you the same?”_

_With that, Neil finally turns slightly towards Shimon, reading the man’s posture and aura with his powerful, infallible Insight. He sits relaxed. He sits calm. He radiates sincerity. He radiates love._

_And so finally, with a small smile of his own, Neil exhales long and gives one small but genuine nod. “Alright,” he says, his voice full of confidence, though still soft. “I promise.”_

 

~

 

Cathal can’t believe what he’s hearing.

But it’s enough to keep him from following through with his sentence — or, more importantly, his motions.

The battered beast has begun to drag itself forward with its only-half-broken arm now, though its screeching has finally begun to quell. It’s almost as if it knows what the other two are saying — almost... relieved, or maybe even hopeful. As if they were ignoring nothing more than a spoiled child’s tantrum, Cathal and Neil step slightly farther away from the beast as their words hush, both ignoring its claws’ consistent scratching and the sound of its chattering fangs.

“You...” Cathal gives the broken, bloody beast a confused sideways glance, then looks back up to Neil with absolutely unreadable eyes. He never would have thought that Neil would have it in him — not for death, not for murder, and _especially_ not towards a friend — towards a _father..._

But Neil then pulls his blindfold off, revealing his still-watering eyes.

And Cathal could never mistake the painful, honest glistening that’s there.

He could never question it.

In fact, he can even  _recognise_ it.

This isn’t a request.

This is a prayer.

And then, suddenly, it hits him:

What was it that Shimon had said before this all started? It was something very important. He had gestured towards his scythe — which, honestly, during the fray, _all_ of them had forgotten was still resting in the shadows of the sanctuary’s rightmost corner — and then said something that Cathal didn’t understand at first; but now...

_“Have him use that.”_

That’s what he had said.

Have _him_ use that.

Him.

Neil.

_Shimon wanted Neil to kill him...?_

The Old Hunter takes a deep breath, attempting to swallow his fury — to swallow his wanting to kill the beast where it lies, writhing in a mess of its own misplaced scarlet. His words are still full of aggression, but Neil knows that it isn’t directed at him. “Are you sure?” Cathal finally asks, exhaling hard with his sentence’s cadence, his fury-narrowed eyes still somehow reading concern.

Neil tries his best to blink back his tears, then nods his head gently a few times.

The beast’s motions have all but completely quelled now — it’s given completely in. It’s... ready to accept its death now, it seems. It’s finally almost over...

Cathal is about to ask the Gnorbu _why,_ but his question is answered before he can voice it. “I made Shimon a promise,” Neil says, though he can’t bring himself say what exactly that promise was.

Cathal doesn’t really need to know the details, though. This is clearly a very private affair. The only thing that matters is... Neil is being genuine. Cathal’s figured it out now. He... thinks he understands.

With another sigh — another attempting to breathe out his remaining rage — Cathal nods once, then moves to the beast’s left side, gently but tightly wrapping his whip around its last unbroken limb, rendering it completely immobilised. Neil steps forward to look into the beast’s still-golden eyes as Cathal, somehow confident that the beast has no way to attack now, begins to make his way towards the corner of the sanctuary — towards where Shimon’s scythe still lies in the shadows.

With Cathal now completely out of earshot, Neil lowers himself to the ground, sitting on his knees by the tip of the beast’s nose. _This is it now,_ he internally reminds himself. _This is the end. Make it matter._ “We all love you so much, Shimon,” Neil says softly, wiping some of the blood from the beast’s torn, pale cheeks. “Nickolas and Cathal, they’ve always loved you as a son — _called_ you their son, even, which you know. You... you’re the light of Oliver’s life, and a wonderful father to your children, and... and you’ve always been like a father to _me,_ too. You’ve always kept me safe. You... you were the first person who... who I ever _knew_ really cared for me. You just... always...” Inhale. His breath quivers. He sniffles. “I... I wouldn’t be here without you, Shimon. I wouldn’t... I wouldn’t even be _alive._ You saved my life so many times, despite how undeserving and untrusting of you as I was. You _saved_ me.” Exhale. “And... and I’m so sorry that I couldn’t save _you._ ”

The beast’s breathing is heavy and raspy, but it’s ceased to make any more sounds.

Neil breathes in heavy again, still looking deep into the beast’s bloodshot eyes.

He refuses to believe there are actually tears there.

Neil lowers his head in respect, giving the beast a humble bow, and...

Well, he can’t let this give him hope, but...

The beast gently lifts its chin to press the tip of its nose against Neil’s, its jaws completely shut tight.

Cathal, now carrying the lightweight scythe in his hands, decides to keep a short distance away from the others to give the two some space to just... be. He takes a deep breath at the sight of what’s happening, his rage almost completely quelled. _Maybe... maybe a part of him really_ is _still in there..._

_Maybe..._

But no, no... he can’t let that thought consume them. _Neither_ of them can.

There’s nothing that can be done now.

After all, sometimes, they’re just buried too deep.

“Thank you for everything,” Neil whispers, then presses a gentle kiss to the beast’s nose in blessing. “I love you.”

With those final words, Neil slowly stands, wiping the blood from his lips as Cathal steps forward and into the crook of the beast’s neck. Neil was so distracted by his thoughts in this final moment that he had hardly seen the Old Hunter approach. He... didn’t see what he was holding.

Right.

Cathal wants so desperately to say something too in this moment — to tell the piece of Shimon that still dwells in this beast that he loved him too, that he was truly like a son to him, that Oliver and Alexander and Nickolas and his children and the grandchildren and the grand _parents_ and _everyone in their entire crazy family_ loves him and will miss him just so, _so_ much — but...

Well, he has faith that Shimon already knows that.

He always did have a bit of a secret ego.

The Christmas Gelert lets Neil’s words linger as he hands the Gnorbu the scythe, then he gently pulls back on the beast’s broken antlers to reveal the soft skin of its throat.

Neil’s seen Shimon do this before — this sort of a painless “execution.” A merciful death. An honourable one. And though the weapon’s unique weight feels a bit unnatural in his hands — his palms sweating and his fingers trembling — Neil has handled this same exact scythe once or twice before, and he knows what he’s doing.

Cathal gives the Gnorbu a short nod of reassurance, then Neil positions the scythe’s blade below the beast’s throat — adjusts the angle of his swing, adjusts his grip on the snath, and then...

The moonlight reflects off of the scythe’s shimmering blade as Neil raises it high above his head.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Swing.

And the blood dissolves into ash.


End file.
